


Scars and Other Ways of Healing

by serenawitchwriter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Angst with a Happy Ending, Centaurs, Child Abuse, Coming of Age, Dark Magic, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Goblins, Homelessness, Horcruxes, House Elves, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Love, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Merpeople, Moral Ambiguity, Obscurial Harry Potter, Obscurials (Harry Potter), Politics, Protective Tom Riddle, Self-Acceptance, Vampires, Werewolves, not as dark as it seems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:28:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22570261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenawitchwriter/pseuds/serenawitchwriter
Summary: What do you get when you cross an obscurial and a horocrux?When Harry Potter was just seven he started developing an obscurial and rather than kill Harry, it devoured the soul shard of Voldemort that resided in the boy, transforming them into a creature the magic world has never seen before.Harry only wishes to have a home. But can he find one when the very world he’s saved wants him dead?
Comments: 14
Kudos: 384





	Scars and Other Ways of Healing

_“...Harry…”_

  


  


_“...Harry…”_

  


  


  


_“...My boy…”_

  


  


Harry Potter woke in a start in his small cot.

  


  


He’d had that familiar nightmare. Green light, a woman screaming, pain like he was being torn apart, and a painful stinging in his forehead. Harry didn’t know why he had that nightmare. It didn’t even really make sense. It was more vague impressions than a detailed dream, but he always felt slightly sick when he woke up.

  


  


Harry rubbed his forehead and looked around the darkness of his cupboard. Based on the darkness beyond the vent on the door, Harry would guess that it was sometime either late at night or very early in the morning. Harry debated the pros and cons of testing the lock on the door and sneaking into the kitchen for a glass of water.

  


  


He felt sweaty and entirely too hot, so he decided to risk it. Unfortunately, Aunt Petunia had remembered to lock the door after he went to bed so he was stuck there. Harry sighed and ran a hand through his messy, sweaty hair.

  


  


Harry knew he wasn’t normal.

  


  


That had always been a fact, even when he was too young to understand why. Strange things always happened around him. Convenient gusts of winds would throw him onto rooftops. If he was worried about something, sometimes convenient coincidences would get him out of trouble, such as his hair growing back in a single night or an ugly sweater shrinking so he wouldn’t have to wear it. Harry even suspected that he turned his teachers hair blue once, though he had no way of proving that was him.

  


  


There were also the dreams. Far beyond the nightmares, Harry also had strange dreams about flying motorcycles and a magic castle full of endless feasts and singing armor. Sometimes he’d dream about bombs falling over London and a dismal orphanage. Sometimes he’d dream about cold high laughter.

  


  


Harry didn’t understand why he had these dreams, but he was fairly certain they were abnormal. Sometimes they felt more real than the life he was living in his cupboard. But Harry knew that was silly and crazy. That was why he didn’t talk about the dreams and did his best to put them out of his mind. Harry knew the Dursleys didn’t care if he had nightmares anyway.

  


  


That was another strange thing about Harry, he knew.

  


  


Normal children weren’t locked away in cupboards. Normal children weren’t called boy. Normal children weren’t starved and expected to do all the housework. Normal children weren’t treated the way Harry was.

  


  


Harry had seen normal children, and he knew he wasn’t one of them.

  


  


It was only recently that Harry had begun to figure out why. He’d come to the conclusion with all the confidence and clarity that a seven-year-old possessed.

  


  


Harry was magic.

  


  


That was why strange things happened to Harry. That was why strange people dressed like they’re from a different time sometimes approached him. That was why the Dursleys flew off the handle whenever the word magic was mentioned. It all fit together rather neatly.

  


  


Harry didn’t know why doing magic was wrong. He figured it must be dangerous. That was a word Uncle Vernon sometimes used. ‘He might get dangerous ideas’. So maybe that was why he was punished all the time. That would make sense. It must be really dangerous if they were so scared of him.

  


  


So Harry tried pushing it down. Whenever he felt angry or scared, he tried to push it down and not feel anything. He’d swallow the magic he sometimes felt bubbling up within him.

  


  


But it never seemed to work.

  


  


His magic seemed to be a slippery thing, and since he could never make it work when he wanted it to, he couldn’t stop it either.

  


  


Harry chewed his lip. He was really thirsty. Harry put his hand against the door and once again tried to will it open using the dangerous power that so often failed him.

  


  


Nothing happened, and Harry huffed silently to himself. No magic was a good thing, right? It meant the Dursleys wouldn’t have a reason to punish him. But really, they’d punish him whether he did magic or not. Sometimes for reasons as unfair as he was too runty or he looked at Dudley funny. A feeling of frustration seemed to build in his chest, and Harry felt a strange warmth spread from his core and down his arm.

  


  


_“...Alohomora...”_

  


  


A voice whispered in Harry’s head, and he startled even as the latch clicked free. Harry stared around wildly for the source of the voice, but it was just him and his tiny cupboard.

  


  


Anxiously Harry pushed open the cupboard door and found no one out there, either. All Harry could hear was the loud snoring of his cousin and uncle and the stillness of the house.

  


  


Willing to test his luck since he made it this far, Harry chanced sneaking into the kitchen and getting a cup of water. He returned the glass once he was done, knowing his aunt would notice if he left it in the sink. He returned to his cupboard, heartbeat still loud in his chest.

  


  


He’d done magic. He’d definitely done magic. Where before it had seemed like a series of convincing coincidences, this was real. He’d moved the lock. He’d made something that was locked unlocked. He could do magic.

  


  


An almost hysterical laugh broke free from his throat, and he quickly covered his mouth with his hand and listened to the still house. Uncle Vernon seemed to shift in his sleep but no one got up.

  


  


Harry wondered about the disembodied voice he’d heard. They said some sort of made up word.

  


  


“Alohomora,” Harry whispered to himself, but he felt no rush of warm energy. nothing happened. Maybe the voice was his magic, Harry guessed wildly and then felt rather silly about it.

  


  


No, he decided, lying back down on his cot and pulling the thin blanket around him. It was probably just the remnants of a dream.

  


* * *

  


It became Harry’s special little secret.

  


  


Harry would still push his magic down when he knew he’d get in trouble. But sometimes when he was alone and particularly irritated or lonely, he’d ask the voice for help…

  


  


And it would do something.

  


  


Sometimes the something was useful, like he managed to vanish all the weeds in the garden. Sometimes it was something more silly, like the time he’d managed to make the neighbors lawn gnome sing. Sometimes it was beautiful, like the time he filled his tiny cupboard with fireflies or turned a piece of paper into a tiny flying dragon.

  


  


Harry came to love magic, and by extension, the voice in his head. As someone usually alone, it became rather easy for the seven year old to talk to the voice. It was his only friend even though the voice regarded him with a cold wariness and mild disdain. This was fine by harry, he wasn’t exactly accustomed to warmth. So long as the voice didn’t ignore him he was happy.

  


  


Things abruptly went wrong when Harry was hiding from Dudley behind the school dumpsters and muttering to the voice. He was complaining about how hungry he was and he really hated it when Dudly stole his lunch.

  


  


Only to have Dudley find him.

  


  


His magic reacted with his fear, but more than that, a foreign feeling of anger surged through his core and lashed out. The voice in his head was angry, terrifyingly angry, and Harry felt it as though it was his own. He felt a violent pull and release like a bowstring letting an arrow fly.

  


  


And suddenly Dudley was on the ground, screaming shrilly. Harry stumbled back, startled. There was a frightening blank moment between the pull of the manic and the result. It was like Harry had blacked out for a few seconds. Dudley was convulsing on the ground in pain. Harry’s magic was enjoying this, while Harry only felt a sudden echoing horror.

  


  


Abruptly the attack stopped, and Harry felt his magic return to his core, pleased with itself.

  


  


_“He deserved it…”_

  


  


Harry began to shake and sob even as Piers dragged a teacher over and pointed an accusational finger at Harry.

  


  


The school nurse concluded that Dudley had simply had a seizure and that Harry was definitely not responsible. A hospital visit would be needed to figure out the exact cause. The current theory was that Dudley had suffered heat stroke. The doctors also brought up Dudley’s obesity as a contributing factor. Aunt Petunia cried hysterically the entire visit and Uncle Vernon wouldn’t stop yelling at the nurses. Harry sat quietly in the corner.

  


  


At some point Dudley pointed a finger at Harry the same way Piers had and Harry knew that he was in trouble, no matter what the doctors said.

  


  


That night Harry received his first physical beating from the Dursleys. Usually they were too afraid of him and his dangerous magic to physically hurt him beyond the occasional smack or prod. But he had hurt their only son, so as far as they were concerned, he was getting what he deserved.

  


  


His magic wanted to lash out. It felt like a dangerous snake in his chest, hissing defensively, wanting to hurt them back. Wanting to kill. Harry pulled it back, remembering the terror he’d felt earlier. He locked his magic deeper down than ever before, swearing never to use it again. He never wanted to feel like this again. He never wanted to be hurt like this, and more so he never wanted to hurt anyone like that ever again.

  


  


The voice mocked Harry for his decision, clearly believing he wouldn’t be able to do it. But Harry was nothing if not stubborn.

  


  


Things didn’t get better for Harry. Even though he was repressing his magic and ignoring the voice completely, the Dursleys didn’t let up on their abuse. It was no longer a matter of them disliking him for what he could do, it was a matter of hating and fearing him for what he did do. The abuse was suddenly defensive, kill him before he killed them.

  


  


They were too afraid to do the deed, to finish him off. Aunt Petunia implied that those types might find out and retaliate. But that didn’t stop Vernon from beating Harry whenever he looked at them funny. On top of that, they stopped feeding him altogether. He stopped attending school. He stopped leaving his cupboard altogether.

  


  


His magic fought him. Struggled. Thrashed. Demanded. Mocked. Harry just pushed it deeper. Things were getting truly bad for both of them. Harry had never felt so weak. Had never felt so bad. Had never felt so helpless, but he couldn't ask his magic for help because he didn't trust it.

  


  


Harry wondered why he couldn't be a normal little boy. 

  


  


One day Harry felt different. Lighter. Flouty. Nothing seemed to hurt anymore and he felt a rare euphoria. In his cupboard, Harry smiled. 

  


  


And it was then that his magic truly got desperate. It begged then, pleaded, offered him things. Pictures of beautiful castles, unicorns, a lake, a feast fit for a king. Images of a woman, with green eyes like his own, fierce and desperate. A feeling of warmth. A promise of love. 

  


  


And that pulled Harry down to reality slightly. His magic didn't know love, Harry knew. Just as Harry didn't know love. But that didn't mean he didn't care. Harry's magic was scared. Harry wasn't, but… he could sympathize. 

  


  


'Do you promise?' Harry asked, not really speaking because his voice was gone. 'Do you promise to love me?'

  


  


All they had was each other, after all.

  


  


Harry had forgotten why he was even mad.

  


  


_'Yes…'_ the voice hissed. _'I will… try…'_

  


  


'Then I'll love you too,' Harry promised. He was very tired now. His eyes were drooping. 'We'll love each other…'

  


  


His magic felt shocked for a moment. Then distrust. Fear. Worry. Acceptance.

  


  


Then fire. A burning in his chest. Harry had never felt so warm. It was like he was burning up from the inside. A Phoenix. His magic asked to be unchained. And Harry, almost relieved, set it free.

  


  


That night, number 4 Privat Drive exploded. 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't expect this to update often. My plan is vague


End file.
